The first day of the journey ended at dusk, when Nathan found a small grove beside the path that offered enough cover to camp without being visible from the main road.

The chestnut horse appreciated it, having walked more than usual.

Nathan untied it, brushed it with a brush Selene had included in the provisions, and left it grazing with its front legs tethered to a three-meter radius around the largest tree.

Liaraen set up the small tent.

Nathan watched her for several seconds, internally processing the fact that a daughter of an elven noble house knew how to pitch a tent more efficiently than he did.

"Are you going to help, or are you going to observe?" Liaraen asked without turning around.

"I’m calibrating how to help without duplicating your work."

"You’re observing."

"I’m observing and learning."

"Acceptable."

The tent was ready in less than ten minutes. Nathan prepared the fire. Liaraen brought out the provisions. They ate dried bread with aged cheese and a portion of dehydrated fruit that Selene had packed knowing it would be welcome at the end of the first day.

They ate in silence for several minutes.

Then Liaraen pulled out the map.

She spread it on a flat wooden board she’d brought specifically for this purpose. Nathan moved beside her. The firelight illuminated the lines traced in red, green, and blue ink.

"Tomorrow we continue along the secondary path for approximately three hours," Liaraen said, pointing with her finger.

"Then the route connects with the Veil system at the first settlement. It’s called Valcrest. A small community. Approximately forty people. Refugees from the Church’s purges in the second district, about twenty years ago. No official Seals. Local self-organization."

"Does Selene have contacts there?"

"Selene has contacts in every Veil settlement. It’s part of the network. We’ll present ourselves with the letter she prepared. They’ll give us lodging for one night and fresh provisions for the next stretch."

"And after that?"

"Then we continue along the inner route. Four more settlements. Each with slightly different conditions. Some are larger. Some are just two or three families."

"The last stop before crossing the border is called Rendel. It’s the largest—about a hundred and twenty people. That’s where Selene coordinated for an elf from the Aelthoren side to receive us and guarantee the border crossing without incident."

"Nine days."

"Nine, yes."

"Terrain?"

"The first four days are fairly flat. Light forests. Farmland. Some rivers to cross at marked fords. The last five days are more rugged. Dense forests. Hills. A mountain pass on the seventh day. And once in Aelthoren, a descent through three layers of forest down to House Sael’thoryn’s central valley."

Nathan nodded.

He studied the map a moment longer.

And then he noticed something.

Approximately halfway between the third and fourth settlements, there was a small mark on the map. Not in red ink like the main route, not in green like the settlements, not in blue like the rest stops.

It was a mark in black ink—discreet, almost decorative, with a specific symbol Nathan recognized as the universal marker used in the kingdom’s cartography to identify exactly one thing.

A dungeon.

Nathan looked at the mark. Then at Liaraen.

Liaraen was already looking at him.

With that specifically neutral expression she wore when she was about to propose something she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t propose.

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

"Is that black symbol where I think it is?"

"What symbol?"

"That one."

"I don’t know what symbol you’re talking about, Hunter Voss."

"The one your finger deliberately brushed against forty seconds ago while you were tracing the route."

"It was an accidental finger movement."

"It wasn’t."

"You have no way of proving that."

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

Nathan looked at her with the specific patience of someone who already knew where the conversation was going and was just waiting for the other person to formally take it there.

"What is that mark?"

Liaraen sighed slightly. A small, almost aristocratic sigh.

"It’s a minor dungeon," Liaraen said. "Registered in human cartography as D-Rank site. It mainly contains minor creatures and some low-quality precious materials. It’s approximately half an hour off the main path on the fourth day."

"Mmh."

"It’s not dangerous. Comparatively speaking."

"Comparatively to what exactly?"

"To higher-rank dungeons."

"That’s a very broad definition."

"It’s a technically precise definition."

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

"Why are you pointing out a dungeon that’s off our main route?"

There was a pause.

Liaraen adjusted the position of her hands on her lap. A small aristocratic movement—the minimal reorganization someone makes when internally preparing a request they know they’re going to have to defend.

"Hunter Voss," Liaraen said, with her formal diction fully restored. "I’m going to make a personal request. You can refuse it. The request doesn’t compromise the journey or overall safety. It’s purely personal."

"I’m listening."

"I’ve lived my entire life in the Northern Kingdom—Aelthoren. In an aristocratic house. I’ve received formal instruction in literature, history, botany, natural magic, diplomatic protocol, basic astronomy, and seven continental languages. I’ve traveled twice to Aelthoren’s central court for ceremonial events. I’ve attended three ritual hunts in the sacred forests. I’ve observed the Seal Awakening ceremony of close family members twice."

"That sounds comprehensive."

"It sounds comprehensive. Yes. But there’s one very specific thing I’ve never done. And until this moment in my life, I hadn’t had a realistic opportunity to consider doing it."

"What thing?"

"Enter a dungeon. Even once. Even a minor one. Even just to see it."

Nathan looked at her.

"You want to enter a dungeon."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I want to see it. With my own eyes. I want to see what it looks like inside. I want to see how treasure hunting works. I want to see a strong, capable adventurer in action—moving through the dungeon with the specific skill that serious Hunters are supposed to have, overcoming obstacles, facing creatures, finding valuable materials, executing the adventurer’s trade in its real form."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

"Do you know that I’m not a strong, capable adventurer in the sense you’re describing?"

Liaraen looked at him.

"Hunter Voss. In the last forty-eight hours, you’ve neutralized a high-Rank extraction team using a skill that made eight professionals see their own death, deceived a Table coordinator in his own office without revealing your true capability, and accepted a transcontinental escort mission that statistically no F-Rank should accept. If by your official category you’re not a strong, capable adventurer, then the official category is miscalibrated—not you."